In vain poor Andrew Cogglesby, to whom the dinner had been torture, and who was beginning to see the position they stood in at Beckley, begged to be allowed to take them away, or to go alone. The Countess laughed him into submission. As a consequence of her audacious spirits she grew more charming and more natural, and the humour that she possessed, but which, like her other faculties, was usually subordinate to her plans, gave spontaneous bursts throughout the day, and delighted her courtiers. Nor did the men at all dislike the difference of her manner with them, and with the ladies. I may observe that a woman who shows a marked depression in the presence of her own sex will be thought very superior by ours; that is, supposing she is clever and agreeable. Manhood distinguishes what flatters it. A lady approaches. “We must be proper,” says the Countess, and her hearty laugh dies with suddenness and is succeeded by the maturest gravity. And the Countess can look a profound merriment with perfect sedateness when there appears to be an equivoque in company. Finely secret are her glances, as if under every eye-lash there lurked the shade of a meaning. What she meant was not so clear. All this was going on, and Lady Jocelyn was simply amused, and sat as at a play. “She seems to have stepped out of a book of French memoirs,” said her ladyship. “La vie galante et devote—voila la Comtesse.” In contradistinction to the other ladies, she did not detest the Countess because she could not like her. “Where’s the harm in her?” she asked. “She doesn’t damage the men, that I can see. And a person you can laugh at and with, is inexhaustible.” “And how long is she to stay here?” Mrs. Shorne inquired. Mrs. Melville remarking: “Her visit appears to be inexhaustible.” “I suppose she’ll stay till the Election business is over,” said Lady Jocelyn. The Countess had just driven with Melville to Fallowfield in Caroline’s black lace shawl. “Upwards of four weeks longer!” Mrs. Melville interjected. Lady Jocelyn chuckled. Miss Carrington was present. She had been formerly sharp in her condemnation of the Countess—her affectedness, her euphuism, and her vulgarity. Now she did not say a word, though she might have done it with impunity. “I suppose, Emily, you see what Rose is about?” said Mrs. Melville. “I should not have thought it adviseable to have that young man here, myself. I think I let you know that.” “One young man’s as good as another,” responded her ladyship. “I’ve my doubts of the one that’s much better. I fancy Rose is as good a judge by this time as you or I.” Mrs. Melville made an effort or two to open Lady Jocelyn’s eyes, and then relapsed into the confident serenity inspired by evil prognostications. “But there really does seem some infatuation about these people!” exclaimed Mrs. Shorne, turning to Miss Current. “Can you understand it? The Duke, my dear! Things seem to be going on in the house, that really—and so openly.”